Chapter 13
March felt like February. The frosted windows in the squad room radiated an icy draft. On Tuesday morning Conley flipped to a new page in his notebook and waited for the daily brief to begin.
“Arson,” Mazzarelli said, pushing his glasses with an index finger and stretching his arms. “According to the Fire Marshal, there’s no doubt. The Hispanic Social Club was destroyed intentionally. Utility company showed a 10-minute spike in demand for no good reason, which means the gas line was cut. Neighbors heard a gunshot that probably ignited the gas. Must have been an incendiary round.”
“What’s the link to this investigation?” Stefanos asked.
“Unclear, maybe nothing. Maybe coincidence. Victor Rodriguez was a founder of the club, helped fund its construction. By the way, the building was underinsured. Never had an inflation rider. Rebuilding would cost twice the payout.”
“Wasn’t he an insurance man?” one of the other detectives asked.
“Barber always needs a haircut,” Stefanos answered. “What else do we have?”
“Substance on the statue was blood—bovine.”
“Cow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Kendricks leaned toward him. “We need to be questioning cows, Captain?”
The other cops snickered.
“Keep going, Mazzarelli.”
“Detective Conley has been cleared of wrongdoing at the Rodriguez murder scene. Police union got involved and negotiated a confession from Detective Jackson in exchange for an early retirement package.”
“So we paid a policeman to tell the truth,” Stefanos said. “That’s wonderful.”
Mazzarelli handed a sheaf of stapled pages to Conley. “You need to sign these. Confirmation of the story you told, releases to Detective Jackson from recourse.”
Conley nodded, fished in his jacket for a pen, and read the top page of the report. Blocks of legal text cascaded under the Ocean Park Police logo, and Jackson’s name appeared about a hundred times in bold caps.
“Open items, Mazzarelli?”
“I’m researching Conley’s story about the Paladin sex club. Nothing yet. No hits in our database.”
“Sex club?” Kendricks asked, giving Conley the stink eye. “Sounds like bullshit.”
“Primary meaning of the word paladin is a heroic champion,” Mazzarelli said. “We think this one is the secondary meaning—stately mansion.”
“What else?”
“Lots of leads, Captain. I made a list.”
Stefanos laid his pen down.
“Kendricks. You pair up with Conley and see Channary and the social worker. Bring Conley up to speed on the investigation while you’re at it.”
Mazzarelli’s pen was poised like a dart.
Kendricks looked up from his notepad.
“Not a good idea, sir.”
“I didn’t ask if it was.”
But Kendricks was undaunted. “Better I go see the girl alone, one on one, y’know, less intimidating.”
Stefanosʼ voice took on a steely edge. “I gave you an order, Detective.” He cast a long stare at Kendricks, who ran his open hand down his face.
“Yes, sir.”
Mazzarelli lowered his Bic and recorded the assignment.
****
Kendricks walked fast through the parking lot. Conley was right behind. He pointed at his BMW, black paint gleaming.
“We can take my car.”
“Not an option.”
They reached Kendricks’ sedan and he unlocked the doors with his key fob, pressing the button hard, before he yanked open the driverʼs door and hauled himself inside.
“I guess you’re driving, then,” Conley said amicably, opening the passenger door and leaning in as Kendricks fastened his seat belt.
“And if your ass ain’t buckled into that seat in three seconds, you won’t be ridin’.”
“Iʼm all for personal safety. Mind if we make a stop?”
“No. I’m pointing the fuckin’ car, I’m deciding where to go, and you’re along to waste gas and breathin’ air.”
“I’m just trying to get along here, Kendricks.”
“Detective Kendricks is the name, and you can try whatever you want, motherfucker. But I ain’t stopping this bus until we get where the captain said to go.”
Conley grabbed the steering wheel at the three o’clock position and held tight.
“One stop on the way.”
Seconds ticked by. A pedestrian passed in front of them, the click of his shoes like a metronome. The sun’s fading light shone through the grimy windshield.
Kendricksʼ voice was low with fury, each word pronounced separately. “Take your hand off my wheel.ˮ
“Listen to me, Kendricks. This is my home, my town. A man was killed in my church, and the city I’ve loved and lived in my whole life is disintegrating right in front of me. Know this: I’m going to find Victor Rodriguez’s killer—and the Hispanic Club’s arsonist—with or without your help.”
Kendricks gave a long stare. Conley took his hand off the wheel.
“One stop.ˮ Kendricks started the car.
“That’s right.”
“Just the one.ˮ
Kendricks spun the wheel and aimed toward the parking lot exit. “Better not be no Starbucks, Mr. BMW. Ain’t never been there and don’t plan on startinʼ up.”
“Nope.”
They reached the exit. “Then mind telling me which way weʼre going?”
“Straight to hell. Morgan’s Tap.”
“Morgan’s Tap?” Kendricks closed his eyes and flexed his hands. “Shee-it.ˮ
****
Morgan’s was crowded. The fat tires of a long line of gleaming Harleys kissed the curb. The Tap’s tattered front door was working hard, swallowing bikers and barflies.
Kendricks parked across the street and reached for the police microphone.
“What are you doing?” Conley asked.
“Calling for backup. Even then I ain’t sure this is a good idea.”
Conley placed his hand over the mic. “We don’t need it here. Trust me.” He hopped out of the car and headed past the fleet of gleaming chrome and rubber. Kendricks hustled to catch up.
They opened the door and walked into smoke and noise. The sweet smell of marijuana mixed with the too-loud sound of heavy metal rock. All was well in the Tap. Donna sat at her video game, cigarette between her lips, beer mug balanced on her lap. Rocco was on his stool, wide awake, hands working as he spoke at patrons on both sides. Teddy was busy serving, his face sweating.
Kendricks caught Conley by the arm. “We’re out of here. Now. I already counted three of the most wanted guys in the state, one of them suspected in a triple homicide.”
“Don’t worry. It’s safe.”
“Christ. You got some kind of fucked up suicide wish?” He reached into his jacket and kept his hand on his holster. “Death by biker mob wasn’t on my dance card today.”
There it is again. Prove yourself. Show me. Convince me you’re not the fuck-up everyone says you are.
“So be it.ˮ
Conley walked over to big Tony just as Teddy was delivering a beer, and elbowed the biker so hard he almost fell off the stool.
“Yep,” Kendricks muttered under his breath, “that’s the triple homicide.”
Conley reached in front of Tony and slid three fingers into the mug handle. He lifted the beer, drank, and slammed the half-empty glass down so hard the rest of the brew splashed onto the front of the biker’s T-shirt.
Tony never moved.
“What the—?ˮ
“Told you, Kendricks. It’s safe.”
With that, Conley headed toward William O’Neil’s office. Halfway there, he looked back over his shoulder. Kendricks was following—tentatively—hand on his service pistol, one eye on the patrons at the bar, one eye on his crazy new partner.